The I Orchestra
by ganetto rain
Summary: start: 1400h, B Block, Practice Room 3. A rag-tag group of five rehearse their Symphony.


_start. _

* * *

1400h. B (Beethoven) Block, second floor, Practice Room 3.

As usual, our Violinist is early. She's unpacking her violin when we enter, and there's a bright, enthusiastic smile on her face as she turns around to greet us with a cheerful wave. Today, she's in her usual skirt-and-girly-blouse outfit, a swift smear of lip gloss on her lips. We can already see our Cellist literally _drooling_ at the sight, and a (lecherous) grin creeping up _way too quickly_ on his face. 

Of course, our Horn Player doesn't look pleased at all. His fingers are already twitching and he's already cracking his knuckles. Same old, same old. Though not to mention the _scary _look on our Violinist's face - her murderous aura can be felt from even thirty feet away! We all try to scoot away from her - as far as possible, anyway. 

As for our Timpanist – well, he doesn't seem the least bit surprised. He's the youngest, but we guess he's more than perceptive for his age. He simply cheerfully bounds over to where our Violinist stands, and she looks down at him with that perfect motherly soft-smile in place. It makes all our hearts melt, really.

Horn Player, grousing at the picturesque scene of mother-fanning-over-child (did we mention that our Timpanist's, like, many many _many_ years younger than the rest of us?) **as usual**, stalks towards his usual seat and plops down with his familiar scowl and crossed-arms position. He's in a bad mood, **as usual**. Same old, same old… right? 

Now our dear, sweet Violinist, seeing his sulky, grumpy frame, walks over and tries to coax him out of his sulkiness and grumpiness. We always think he does that on purpose so that our darling Violinist can _baby _him, but any mention of the matter sends him flying at us faster than any of us can scream "YOWW!" Of course, in the first place, our Violinist almost always ends up flying at _his_ throat anyway – he's just _that_ irritating and stubborn, that pig-headed fool of a Horn Player who's as Loud as a Horn. 

And now Cellist and Violist are both shaking their heads at each other (and acting all lovey-dovey with each other again too – not that Violist'd ever acknowledge that; she'd be traumatized in fact) and laughing at the _sameness_ of the moment. 

In the end (after a half hour of general chaos), it's our grumpy, sulky Horn Player who calls for our attention with a loud, sharp whistle. With some general grumbling and shifting of chairs, we move around to our usual positions. Our Horn Player's at the front, of course – he's starting off our whole rehearsal, after all. Violinist is somewhere to his right, her temper somewhat calmed after a brief rant, and back to her normal self. Cellist pushes his chair such that he's facing Horn Player, and Violist takes up her position beside him, while Timpanist sets up his drums right behind the both of them.

"Oi," Horn Player says. Loudly. As a trumpet, no, _horn_ (sorry for the mistake). We all look up, faces all attention. It would seem as though we were all military men – and women – though of course, soldiers _would_ be a better term. In this case, the description would actually be quite true considering the piece we were going to rehearse. 

Horn Player looks at all of us in turn, his eyes now sharp and focused, all trace of grumpiness (and sulkiness) gone. "Let's start, yeah?"

Timpanist chirps a loud, cheery, "YEAH!" Cellist, Violist and Violinist simply nod and return their attentions to their instruments.

_The hunting symphony. _

The horn starts, a loud clear call. _The hunting of the stag_. Trumpets and fanfare, make way for the King right at the front brandishing his shimmering blade of the stars _and not the other sword_, the noble men who escort the king out on his hunt, the soldiers shifting nervously in their multiple layers of armour sweating under the bright, hot sun, the ladies-in-waiting with their silk handkerchiefs, the servants bearing silver platters to welcome the imminent arrival of an innocent stag's lifeless body 

_(but shouldn't it be another, an un-innocent monster_.)

The violin carries the melody, viola and cello play in quick succession. _Quick_, a march in 6/8 time, the drum beats raised. Colourful flags and banners are held up, and the king raises his sword and marches forth on his grand steed, many noble men riding after him in their grandiose display of spangled gold and brilliant red, the soldiers running after with their lances and spears and helmets drawn over their eyes, and the servants last of all. 

The King and his many men ride into the great forest beyond the outskirts of the forest. They travel for many miles, many miles, under the hot burning sun, sweating in their multiple layers of armour and clothing, yes the sweaty, tired soldiers, yes the many brave, handsome nobles, yes even the king with his flags of spangled gold and brilliant red, seated upon his grand steed. The violin slows to 4/4 time, the viola and cello in harmony, a creeping crawl, _the undercurrent of tensions, where is the stag, (where is he)_ and the violin plays on relentlessly, _mercilessly_, as the hunt drags on.

A horn call. _There is the stag!_ The horn rushes forth into the fray, excitedly, back in 6/8 time, the violin struggling to keep pace as the King surges forward (_he surges forward like he always does)_, the marching beats of the drum speeding up, the cello and viola in mad symphony…

_There is the _stag! and he slips out of sight, the hunt goes on, the horn calls alternating with matching double drum beats, the violin rushing forward determinedly with viola and cello in tow…

_(- and we'll always be there to back him up, always, forever_.)

_There is the _**stag**! another horn call, a loud, jarring sound, and the king rushes forth brandishing his shimmering blade of the shining stars, faithful nobles at his side and soldiers marching after determinedly…

_There is the stag, there is the _stag_, there is the _**stag**_…_ Oh, the failed attempts, the stag disappears into the foliage, past a tree, hidden, always hidden, always running and hiding, and the king and his faithful men ride on, sweat running down their hot, flushed faces, their limbs weary but they press on. There is no break for them (_the hunt must go on, we cannot stop, we cannot despair_ …)

_(- so they continue their hunt….)_

_There is the stag._ The king rushes forward, and now the nobles and soldiers throw their arrows and lances and spears, the stag avoids them and their attacks backfire (_he is wily, he always runs, he always hides)_. They are bruised and tired - _and the horn call is shrill, together with violin making quick pace, viola and cello half a beat behind the drum beats...  
… _they are so close, this time, and he does not falter, _and the horn makes its final, desperate blow_, and he says this is my last attempt my last chance my last all-

_- Hark the horn call_! It is a shrill sound, victorious, triumphant! and immediately a cacophony of sounds erupt, the horn hooting in shrill delight, violin, viola and cello dancing in frenzied excitement, the drum beats loud and exultant, _and yet they are weary__, the King on his grand steed, the noble men and soldiers panting from exertion_, and the abrupt medley fades away… And all becomes quiet.

_To 4/4 time _the music ends. The final symphony is a rush of notes, a steady march. The drum beats stronger, and the violin now slowly picks up, a happy, melodious sound, and the viola and cello following suit in relieved and ecstatic harmony.

And the horn! It blows its jubilant entry, as the king returns to his castle, amidst the cheers of the patient ladies-in-waiting, the colourful flags and banners which fly in the gentle breeze, the escorting nobles and soldiers who wear exhilarated grins on their sweaty, grimy faces, their arms and shoulders sore…

… And as the last notes fade away as the king enters his grandiose abode of tall towers and parapets and sweeping marble staircases, the horn blares

_its final, triumphant note._

Horn Player puts down his horn in relief, and immediately reaches over to our resident Violinist's backpack, pulling out a water-bottle and gulping down its contents in relief. Our Cellist snorts and tries not to laugh, accidentally bumping his head into Violist's, who glares back at him while rubbing her own head, every fibre of her being announcing that _he will get it_ soon. The rest of us all shake our heads and start packing up. 

The room gradually gets filled up with chatter – occasional outbursts from Horn Player who grumbles that today's practice wasn't all _very_ good, Timpanist's getting whacked by Horn Player (the rest of us all try to stop him from his abuse of Timpanist's exceedingly _small_ frame), Violinist who pep-talks us all and commends our marvelous effort in pulling through the whole piece "oh, you handled the fast parts marvelously well", "that was awesome, we're almost there", "your skills have improved tremendously, great work", "we did great, people!" 

And with that, our rehearsal ends. Chairs are scraped and stacked back into their original position, and we switch off the lights and the air-conditioner. Horn Player happily decides that we should all have dinner at a ramen store (to which we all roll our eyes – he never ever seems to get tired of it, does he?). And so we leave, shouldering our instruments (and for our Violinist, her backpack as well), and we close the door behind us with happy smiles on our faces (or at least, as much of one as we can get from Horn Player).

it is another ordinary day.

Practice Room 3, B (Beethoven) Block. 1600h.

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_end._

* * *

**Author's Note: **Somehow, the fact that the term _Hornist_ is less seldom used than _Horn Player_ for the person playing the French Horn made me giggle.  
Hmmm, this came from random inspiration, and I guess it's pretty choppy and not-quite-intelligible. It's kind of like an experimental piece, especially since I have no experience with orchestras, and in fact hardly any music background to speak of. --"  
Comments and criticism are both welcome :D


End file.
